Lucky
by Anita Colorista
Summary: Even guy BFF's share clothes-here's why Starsky & Hutch have shared one particular sweater


"Lucky"

I remember when I first met you. You lifted me up and examined me with your crystal blue eyes, then glanced at your date with a hesitant smile and shrugged. You ask him repeatedly not to acknowledge your birthday and yet he never listens. He always does something to let you know that he remembers and cares, no matter what's going on at work or personally between you. Deep down, we both know you would be disappointed if he didn't. Lowering me slowly, you answered his raised eyebrows with the affirmative that he craved, "I like it, Starsk. Thanks." If not for a third glass of wine and the expectant faces of two beautiful women, leaving it at that would have been harder.

Starsky wiggled with glee and he proposed a toast loudly enough to be heard around the room, "To my best friend in the whole, wide world. May you live to be 140!" Your face flushed and Marci giggled; she knew how painful it was for you to be called out publicly by Starsky's affections. Later, she told you how endearing it all was and insisted that you wear me to work the next day, "Ken, it will make him very happy to see it. And burnt orange is a nice color on you." You sighed and agreed to wear me just to please her -but more to please him.

Now I live at Starsky's place. He hasn't worn me since the day he wheeled you out of the hospital and presented you with that horrible car. I felt him tremble when you slammed the car door with your crutch, withholding judgement for a few seconds just to torture him. When you finally declared the car "beautiful," I felt him breathe deeply with relief. That night, he pulled me off and folded me gently, as if he wouldn't need me anymore—I had done what he needed.

How long after your October birthday did I almost lose you the first time? Right before Christmas, which would have scarred everyone around you for life with a traumatizing holiday memory… if it had happened the way one man had intended. That day my association with good luck was forever linked to Frank Hames, the nasty drug pusher and violent felon. You had worn me that day because it was colder than usual, with the black turtleneck that went well with my color and added an additional layer of warmth. It was a quiet morning, and you and Starsky bantered, as usual, about the real meaning of Christmas.

"Starsky, I'm telling you. I'm not giving in this year. When I say 'nothing' I mean it! So don't bother getting me anything." you grumped, clenching your jaw and staring straight ahead. "You won't be getting anything in return."

"Aw, come on, Hutch," he chided with amusement, not believing you really meant it. "Where's your Christmas spirit?" He glanced over and tilted his head to see your eyes. "Ok, be that way. I already have something for you."

Your conversation was interrupted by the familiar voice that directs you into the strange, funny and dangerous situations that define your lives as Bay City cops, "Zebra 3, Zebra 3, come in please."

You grabbed the handheld and snapped, "Yeah, what is it?

The dispatcher had heard as much before, "In the holiday spirit again, Hutch?"

You eased back against the seat, exhaled, and responded more softly, "Sorry. What do you have?"

"We have a report of one Frank Hames being located at 128 E Martin Street, the Garfford apartments, number 4. Proceed with extreme caution."

You and Starsky glanced at each other briefly with that "This is a dangerous one, buddy, but I've got your back!" look—it was one of those calls that you both dreaded and lived for. You'd been looking for Hames for weeks and this was your chance to get a vicious criminal off the streets. After a dull morning of aimless driving, the adrenalin rush literally buzzed in your ears. You slammed the mars light on the roof and the Torino lurched forward, throwing you back against the seat. I felt you brace as Starsky screeched around corners, dodging other, slow-moving cars in your path.

As you reached the rundown tenement, Starsky slowed the Torino to a crawl and you slipped your heavy Python from the holster between your arm and your ribs. I could feel your heart pounding. You may exude confidence and self-control in the face of danger, but I could always tell when a situation made you fearful. And while you trust Starsky with your life, and you'd never approach a man like Hames without him at your side, you found yourself nervously hyperventilating the minute you exited the car. As you took the front and Starsky the back, I felt your hand touch your chest as you whispered to yourself, trying to calm your racing heart, "Damn it, Hutch."

Your arm was shaking as you pulled open the door to the apartment building, which wasn't usual for you. Hames wasn't the predictable loser you both had experience with, and that made him the most dangerous element in your job description. You sighed with apprehension when you saw the long, dark hallway ahead. As you crouched and slowly approached the door to apartment #4, your breathing seemed to stop entirely, and you pressed tightly against the wall. Your jacket crackled when you lifted the Python, tapped on the door with its barrel, and waited. You tapped again.

Seconds passed without a reply and your muscles relaxed just a little. "He's not here," I heard you whisper. You tested the door handle and the door creaked open. Crouching with your gun outstretched, you crept into the apartment and found no one. After a quick sweep of the bathroom and kitchenette, you slid your weapon smoothly back into its holster. "We missed him," you said out loud, sounding both disappointed and relieved. Stepping to the single window in the room, you knocked on the glass to let Starsky know an escaping felon wouldn't be crashing through the glass.

And that's when it happened: that instant when everyone's life could have changed forever, especially yours. You turned back toward the room and there he stood, Frank Hames, with a single barrel shotgun. I felt your shoulders drop; this was a rookie mistake that would now likely cost you your life. Over his shoulder I could see a small closet door hanging open, and I know you wondered how in the hell you missed it. Carefully raising both hands to show that you weren't a threat, not one that required killing anyway, you could barely breath out the words, "Hames, don't…"

Hames didn't say a word. He just smiled, lifted the shotgun toward your face, and fired. You flinched, imagining the pain and the horror that was coming, yet you stood frozen in place as if unable to alter the inevitable. I could only imagine the blood and brains that would soon soak me. And then, nothing. Just the hard metal click of a hammer knocking harmlessly against shells that were jammed vertically in an old, uncleaned chamber. Both of you stared at each other, the killer and the killed – amazed that you were neither. Starsky bursting through the doorway and tackling Hames shook you from your near-death stupor and you resumed your duties as if you hadn't almost had your head blown off. You are good at hiding trauma, Hutch.

I was christened "Lucky" over beers at The Pits that night. You and Starsky toasted and laughed and pretended the whole thing didn't scare the living shit out of you, but I knew otherwise. I had the smell of sweat to prove it. You wore me only once after that—I was there the day Starsky popped into the station after being poisoned—because I was an uncomfortable reminder of a seasoned cop's unforgivable error.

And then came the day when you disappeared. I remember it like yesterday: Starsky unlocking your door, then calling out your name—at first sounding anxious, then frightened. By then your apartment was filled with the acrid stench of an incinerated casserole you had placed in the oven. "Hutch, where the hell are you?" he yelled as he slammed the smoking dish in the sink. He stormed out, pulling the door hard behind him, but then he returned and started yanking open the drawers to your dresser. When he found me, he snatched me up and took me with him. I knew why.

I rode all around town with Starsky the rest of the day and that night as he raced from lead to lead in search of you. I heard him stumbling over words, in frustrated tears one moment and growling determination the next, as he tried to tell dispatchers where he was going. The intensity of his focus and his fear finally wore him down as he pulled into his usual spot at the station. Cutting the engine, and unable to force his mind and body to continue, Starsky's head fell back against the Torino's seat and he collapsed into a torrent of half-sleep and nightmares. For a few fitful hours, I watched as he mumbled your name and gripped me tightly in his lap.

Noticing the first cracks of sunlight the next morning, Starsky jolted awake and panicked, "What time is it!" Jerking his hand upward to look at his watch, I came flying up with it and he froze when he saw me. "My God, Hutch…" he sighed as he pulled me close to inhale the spicy, vanilla scent, "Where are you, buddy?"

I was still there beside him when he finally knew the answer and rushed up the mountain road, having put the pieces together that would lead him to you. I have never seen your partner so taut with determination and stark raving fear. He struck the steering wheel repeatedly as he pushed the heavy Torino up the incline, and when he saw an empty car already parked at the spot where you had been pushed from the road, he screamed.

I could hear Starsky yelling later, too, but out of frustration and impatience as people worked to lift your mangled car enough to release your leg. I know if Starsky had his way—he alone would have bionically lifted that hulk and carried you to the waiting ambulance. When at last you were free and off to the hospital, Starsky sat in the Torino and wept, exhausted and relieved that he'd found you in time. Steadying himself, he used me to wipe away the tears. He held me to his face and enhaled deeply, then started to shake with laughter, "That's the cologne I gave you for Christmas!"

Now I am tucked safely away in Starsky's drawer where I can occasionally remind him of the time he didn't give up-when he held himself together and powered through the leads and the dead ends and the missing pieces to save you. He smiles when he sees me. He knows this "lucky" sweater had very little to do with it.


End file.
